


You can’t kill him just because you don’t know how to hit on him!

by MarigoldWritesThings



Series: The New Guy and other short stories [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Second-Hand Embarrassment, but also fluff, draco is awkward, sort of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldWritesThings/pseuds/MarigoldWritesThings
Summary: It's tough liking someone when you struggle keeping yourself together.Or: a 8th year fic where Draco can't quite face Harry and tries to find ways out of the embarrassment.





	You can’t kill him just because you don’t know how to hit on him!

"You can't kill him just because you don't know how to hit on him!" Pansy exclaimed, voice barely breaking through her wheezing laughter, "just talk to him for Merlin's sake!" 

"Why on earth not. It worked in sixth year." 

"First of all, my darling, it didn't. He's still alive," Draco only shrugged in response, as if that minor detail need not matter, "Secondly, you really shouldn't joke about that." 

They were in the Potion's cupboard, which Draco volunteered to clean up in a cunning rouse (if he said so himself) to find the right ingredients for a painless, quick death to bring upon Potter. He wanted to do this right: after all, he wasn't a savage who enjoyed bringing pain. He just needed a simple solution to rid himself of this constant cringy embarrassment he regularly brought upon himself and the (not-so) Noble House of Malfoy. 

Pansy came with him under excuse of helping, but as she now sat on the edge of the table, one leg crossed over another, not helping in the slightest yet still managing to get the information she wanted from him, she was clearly the more cunning of the two. She also managed to look fiercely fabulous even in the cramped, dusty, poorly lit space. The green glow of potions somehow only made her skin look more radiant, and Merlin if Draco didn't hate her just a little bit for that. 

“Why exactly don’t you just talk to him? You’ve never had any problems in that department,” Pansy was using her wand to manicure her fingernails into intricate snake scales, which Draco knew would look tacky on anyone else yet had to begrudgingly admit she could pull it off. She could pull everything off. It drove him mad. 

Mad with love, Draco reminded himself. Platonic, never-ending love.

He busied himself with re-arranging vials of red myrrh away from wartcup powder. The first was widely known for its transference and keeping it next to something as porous as the latter could only spell disaster for the potion-makers. Slughorn really dropped the ball there. 

At the back of the shelf, dusty and forgotten, stood a globular vial, its frosty glass barely showing the blood red liquid hiding inside. There was no label. Draco uncorked it carefully and smelled the contents.

“No way.”

Pansy redirected the attention away from her nails and shot him a questioning look. 

“Baneberry Potion.”

She jumped of the table swiftly and was at his side in a split second. 

“And you smelled it? Are you alright?”

Looking Draco up and down, only satisfied when he nodded in affirmation, she took the vial away from him. 

“This really shouldn’t be here. First-years come here.”

“Since when do you care for first years?” Draco asked offhandedly.

“You have to show it to McGonagall.”

“What? No, I don’t,” Draco had no desire to speak to the new Headmaster. He had spent the eighth year so far keeping a low profile and avoiding unnecessary altercations. 

“Well, you’re not going to actually kill the Saviour of the Wizarding World, are you now. And you can’t leave it here. It’s dangerous.”

Draco shrugged noncommittally. He could kill Potter if he so chose. He was definitely more cunning than the Golden Boy. And poison was just his style. Cowardly. 

“No, I suppose not,” he answered as she stared him down, “come on then, let’s go talk to the Mother of Griffins.”

***  
Talking to McGonagall about the downfalls of the Potions department in her school was not what Draco would consider fun. It was obvious from the way her eyes flashed dangerously that it would be ions of magnitude worse for Slughorn when she got her talons into him (small victories), but even Draco had to begrudgingly point out that by the state of the glass, and potency of the potion, it must have been in the storage since at least Snape. So technically, as much as the words barely made their way out of Draco’s throat, tasting of indignation, Slughorn wasn’t entirely to blame. Only as much as his laziness, and inattention to details, and disregard for proper storage procedures and…

Well, she got the point. 

And Draco was left without his cunning plan, which the answer to so blessedly fell into his open arms. He was, once again, destined to talk to Potter, and a shiver of embarrassment still overtook him at mere memory of what happened last time. 

Oh Merlin, last time. 

If Potter was not so difficult, things would have gone different. Draco wouldn’t have told him his hair reminded him of an oil spill coating seagulls - that one was meant to be a compliment. And Draco wouldn’t have followed Potter into the bathroom. All by accident, of course. He wasn’t following, he was just walking, and Potter was walking and…

Potter. 

As if summoned by Draco mentioning his name too many times, like some sort of gorgeous Bloody Marry, there he was, all oil-spill-black, messy, beautiful hair, and eyes, and cheeks, and that magic which radiated from him with the force of a storm and a gentleness of a breeze. 

Potter. 

“You alright standing there?”  
Of course Potter would speak to him, if Draco stood like an absolute tosser at the entrance to eight year common room, unmoving as a bloody Greek statue (he did have the nose to match). 

“No. No, I’m going to sit, of course.” 

Draco willed his knees to move across the empty room, to the farthest corner from Potter. 

“Why are you going there for, you weirdo? Come sit by me,” Potter was unnervingly confident, and had no ounce of decency to leave people to their own devices. Draco changed his tracks and sat on the comfy sofa. The heat from Potter’s magic was scorching him more than the fire he sat directly in front of. 

“What did you do today?”

“I was trying to find a way to kill you,” Draco responded nonchalantly. Potter was being nice, asking nice questions, lulling him into a false sense of security and he’s been like that all year, so it’s been slowly and bit by bit wearing Draco down. 

“You did what now?” 

Potter’s face was frozen in a half-smile, as if he wasn’t certain if Draco was joking or being serious and couldn’t quite decide on which expression to adorn. 

Shit. Those were not the words which were meant to come out. He was meant to say fixing the potions room or destroying Slughorn’s life or really anything else, any other combination of words would have done but that one. 

“No, you see, not like that. I don’t mean that. I just can’t seem to talk to you like a human being, so I thought if I poisoned you, that would save the fuss,” oh shit, crap, Merlin’s balls not that, “I don’t mean that either. I just mean… your eyes are distracting; can you do something about that?”

“Do something about my eyes,” Potter repeated, a stern statement, and Draco’s ears filled with a high pitch sound that had a lot to do with how fast his heart was beating. 

“Like, close them. I mean – close them, not remove them or something.”

“Remove my eyes.”

Merlin this was going all kinds of wrong and Draco really, truly needed to retreat. Count his losses, call away the cavalry, and retreat into the safety of the Welsh mountains, the way of Owain Gwynedd. There he could live, from now on. Rearing sheep. 

Draco made to stand, but Potter caught him by the wrist and pulled him back down. 

“You’re not getting away until you explain to me what’s going on. I will not have a repeat of sixth year.”

Potter was so sure, so certain, that Draco felt the fear simultaneously melt away and triple in volume. The buzzing in his ears kept getting louder, and he would surely have to scream just to hear his own voice. 

“So? Why are you trying to poison me?”

“Because you’re really fit, and I can’t talk to you.” 

The words escaped his lips unintentionally, amongst the rushing of blood and the roaring of magic, and suddenly the world became still and silent. Even his own heart, just a moment ago so overactive, had stopped it’s obnoxious beating. Curse his heart, it was all its fault. It was being so loud he couldn’t think, and now look what happened. 

“Excuse me, I’m going to go jump off a cliff now,” Draco broke the silence and tried to stand up again, but Potter renewed the grip on his wrist, pinning him into place. 

“You think I’m fit?”

“That was made apparent, I do believe.”

“And you weren’t really trying to kill me again?”

“No.”

Potter smiled, a real, blinding smile Draco was certain he would pay to see. 

“Alright then. I’d like to kiss you now, if that’s ok.”

Draco’s heart had restarted at the simple words, said so casually, as if they weren’t world-altering. 

“It’s ok,” he barely breathed out, because it was. 

And so Potter did.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr - so come say hi if you want! @marigoldwritesthings


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